


Little one

by Oddleoo



Series: The World Is Changing [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Features drinking in excess in second chapter, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Peter Parker is Trying His Best, Protective Natasha Romanov, Some Humor, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, but only briefly, no beta we die like women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-12-26 16:44:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18286241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oddleoo/pseuds/Oddleoo
Summary: He stands and pushes the wobbly chair back under the island.“I- I mean- you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’m pretty good at fighting- you know- as I am now. I’ll probably-““I’ll train you.”Peter blinks.“What?”“I’ll train you, Spider-boy. I’ve seen you fight, and you're not good at it.”She slides her cup into the sink and stands.“Uh...Okay?"Or, Peter sucks at fighting, but luckily, he's got an ex-assassin to teach him.





	1. Chapter 1

 

He'd broken his nose- not for the first time, though he's still thrown each time by how awful it feels.  
He's reminded near every day by his Aunt and Tony that he's got a startling propensity for trouble. Even Ned and MJ seemed rather set on showing him just how often he gets himself injured through extreme passive-assertion. They've recently bought a chalkboard, and have pinned it to the inside of his locker, and have taken to tallying up each day that Peter goes without getting himself hurt. They call it, "Peter's Day's Without Injury Talley board". His record is still just 13 days- which seems pathetic- but it's honestly a lot better than his last record of 9 days.  
They seem to think that the tally board will knock some sense into him- but really, all it's done thus far is make Peter feel pretty lousy.  
May says he should consider taking karate classes. Peter is not convinced, but really, if ever there were a sign to consider one's lack of fighting skill, it's breaking your nose for the 3rd time in just 2 months.

He goes to see Dr. Banner because the man has become his designated doctor since the first time he stitched up Peter's wounds.

Though he isn't technically a medical doctor, Bruce a lot more familiar than any other members of the compound's medical staff, and he's the only sort-of doctor who knows his identity.  
That makes him the best- and the most suited- for treating him.  
"Hey Dr. B."  
He plops himself onto the bed, pulling his mask away from his battered face. He imagines his face looks a lot like Carrie after the prom, since he had carelessly pulled on his mask, over the blood, smearing it up to his cheekbones and forehead. A mess, that would inevitably have to be cleaned by Tony, unfortunately. The man hated having to clean his suit, especially when he had to thoroughly remove bloodstains from the material.  
Bruce startles to his feet, nearly knocks over a vial of something purple, and rushes to Peter's side with wide eyes.  
"Peter? What the hell happened?"  
He adjusts his wire-framed glasses on his nose, and pulls on some blue latex gloves, slapping against his wrists.  
"It's not as bad as it looks."

Bruce shakes his head, all stiff, like he has reason to be shocked- this isn't Peters first altercation with a mugger gone wrong, and it definitely won't be his last.  
He prods Peters' cheeks- checks for fractures beneath his skin, taps the bridge of his nose with hands that tremble (due to too much coffee, or fear, Peter's not entirely sure.)  
"Peter, who did this to you?"  
He sounds like he thinks it was someone of Hulk-like strength and size. He sounds angry, and Peter thinks he might see a little green at the tips of his ears.  
"Just some guy."  
"Just some guy? I didn't think 'just some guys' could take down Spider-Man."  
"Well, he did have a hell of a right hook."  
"Peter..."  
Peter closes his eyes and blows out a breath from his nose, "I promise it doesn't even hurt that bad. Just please set it before it heals all wrong."  
Bruce sighs- pulls his lips between his teeth in that silently contemplative way.  
"It's gonna hurt."  
Peter shrugs, "Probably hurt more when I broke it."  
"I'm gonna be honest Peter," he gives a strained smile, "It's definitely gonna hurt more to set it."  
Peter is disappointed, but not entirely surprised. Parker-luck, he thinks, is really stupid.  
"It's fine," he says, even though it's not, "Just do it."  
He steels himself, biting down hard on nothing. His teeth grind, and he finds himself staring at the flower painting across the room. Tony had been the one to decorate the room, once it was officially named ‘Peter's medical room’, he decorated it with flower paintings and made the walls baby blue. The man said, Peter should have some' calming scenery while he got his stupidity reversed'. Really, Tony had decorated it that way because he was annoying and wanted Peter to know it.

Bruce braces his fingers on both sides of his nose, "Alright Peter. On the count of 3..."  
"1..."  
He hasn't known Bruce very long- but Peter likes him. He and Peter have grown especially closer since he discovered the boys love of chemistry. Peter shared his web-formula, and Bruce shared a discovery of he made during the first Battle of New York. (Apparently, gamma radiation significantly weakens the element Vibranium, and he discovered this when he, as the Hulk, broke through the Vibranium plated ships of the Chitauri without much struggle. 'There's Gamma radiation everywhere in space- it's just our luck that the Chitauri didn't know just how badly Gamma radiation weakens Vibranium')  
It also helps, that Bruce and Tony are close enough friends that he's pretty easy to trust- green alter ego included. Tony is a lot more comfortable around Bruce than most of the other Avengers and that sense of comfort was not something the man felt very often. Not lately, especially now that the Rouges have been pardoned (Tony had had a hand in that decision) and Black Widow has made her presence known. She's returned to the compound for a few days, while Bruce adjusts to life without the Avengers. (Peter was pretty surprised when he found out because the Rouges weren't fugitives anymore, but they still weren't entirely in New Yorks good graces, and not entirely in _Tony's_ good graces.  
Tony hasn't told Peter why he'd been so generous, and Peter doesn't plan to ask- not when it's pretty much guaranteed that he'd just get all tight-lipped and change the subject somehow.)  
He also listens to Peter when he talks, and that was more than he could say of most adults because when Peter talks, he _talks_.  
"2..."  
Bruce likes to say that he and Hulk are separate entities, but Peter knows that sometimes, Bruce's personality bleeds over in the way he tramples around and the Hulk sometimes pays mind to the little things- avoids destroying buildings when he can. Bruce may not be Hulk, and Hulk may not be Bruce, but they are a lot closer than first impression showed.  
"3!"  
_Crack_.  
Peter squeaks- his hands clench hard enough around the infirmary bed that it tears and little balls of cotton float to the floor.  
Bruce wiggles his nose around, and it's a good 30 seconds later before Bruce blows out a breath and takes his hands away from Peter's face.  
"All done."  
Peter breathes, clearly for what feels like the first time.

”Does it look any better?"  
Bruce considers.  
"Marginally."  
And that's good enough for him.

Bruce cleans his face with cotton balls dipped in sweet-smelling alcohol. Peter has finally settled, and the air in the infirmary room is almost peaceful.  
And then Bruce says, "You know I have to tell Tony about this, right?"  
And Peter expected as much, but it doesn't make the prospect any less dreadful.  
"I know, but can't you just, give it til' tomorrow? I'd like to hold onto my dignity for at least the night..."  
Bruce sighs, "I won't tell him, only because I want you to tell him yourself."  
Peter looks down, "Yeah okay, that's fair."  
Bruce puts a hand on his shoulder, smiling in the kind way that reminds him a lot of his Aunt, "He's that way he is because he cares."  
"I know."  
And he really does. Tony doesn't often do things halfway; when he cares, he cares completely.

Bruce tells him to be safer on patrol, and Peter promises that he would, since he's just that great at making empty promises.

 

 

 

Ultimately, it doesn't matter that Bruce isn't one to snitch, because Tony finds out all on his own anyway, the same way he finds out about anything- by being excessively nosy.  
He walks into the lab the next morning, face sore but otherwise almost completely healed. His bruises are barely visible yellow splotches on pale skin, and his nose is only slightly swollen and purpled- nothing a little dollop of his aunt's foundation couldn't cover up. Nobody, with the exception of the overtly observant Michelle Jones, had commented on his appearance, which was a win in his book.  
Tony's sitting by his work table with his arms and legs crossed, face betraying little emotion- just a slightly cocked brow.  
Peter sighs, shoulders sagging, "You know."  
“Of course I know, I’m Tony Stark. I’ve got eyes everywhere, kid.”  
He walks the few feet between Tony and himself and slumps into the chair beside the man.  
“It really wasn’t that bad.”  
“You broke your nose, Pete. More than that, a drunk who couldn’t tell the difference between the floor and the sky broke your nose.”  
Peter prefers not to think of that little detail. He thinks, probably, if he had had enough sleep the night before, he would've easily taken that guy down, terrible fighting skills notwithstanding.  
“How’d you know that?”  
Tony taps his temple, “Eyes everywhere, kid.”  
He shrinks into himself, shoulders hiking up to his ears. (Sometimes, Peter really disliked the surveillance protocol of his suit. Especially on the days when he did something embarrassing on patrol- like slipping on black ice and vaulting face-first into a dumpster. Tony still teases him about that, and Peter always responds by bringing up that video of Tony's first forays with the Iron-man suit, when he'd flown himself into the ceiling.)  
Tony puts a heavy hand on Peter’s shoulder and holds it there.  
“Listen kid, I know you’re smart and strong enough not to get your ass handed to you by some twiggy drunk-“ he squeezes Peter’s shoulder, and his eyes take on a sincerity not often attributed to the billionaire- “So I feel like I’m morally obligated to ask- what’s going on, kid?”

He sounds so genuinely concerned that Peter considers telling him the truth.

He hasn't been sleeping much.

He’s never had the best relationship with sleep, but even more so recently, Peter’s found that he can't sleep comfortably in the dark. The dark reminds him of being trapped under cement and stone, and he dreams of Toomes when he falls asleep. He's taken to sleeping in the hallway outside his Aunt's room, and sometimes that's enough, but most of the time it's not, and then he downs 3 cans of Red-Bull in the morning to keep him awake throughout the day. On the days that he falls asleep during class, Ned will reflexively nudge him awake, or MJ will flick his shoulder- and even Flash will throw balls of paper at him, whispering 'wake up, Penis'- a less sentimental gesture, but its a lot better than just letting him snooze through their History lecture.  
So really, his lack of fighting ability is not the sole thing to blame for his recent surge of injuries.

  
But he doesn’t want Tony to worry more than he already does, and doesn’t want May to stress, and would really hate for anyone to feel anything at all at the expense of their own comfort of thought.  
So he bites his lip and says, “It’s just- school, Mr. Stark. It’s finals week and I haven’t had the time to sleep a lot, you know? And I went on patrol to blow off some steam... I guess the fatigue kinda caught up with me.”  
And it's true enough that Tony doesn't question it.  
Still, he stares at Peter and he knows he's looking at the yellowish bruises on his skin.  
It's obvious that Tony suspects there's something deeper here, but he sighs and shakes his head, saying that the American Education System is ' _damn_ _stupid_.'  
Still, there’s an unvoiced declaration there- ‘ _you’ll_ _talk_ _when_ _you’re_ _ready_ ’- and Peter feels comforted by the thought that Tony trusted Peter enough not to keep everything all bottled up.

  
Tony turns to his work-table, a contemplative look in his eyes.  
"You should consider training with Romanoff. You’re a string bean, kid. You gotta compensate for that with real skill.”

Peter quails, and thinks about saying that he  _does_ have skill, but he'd just gotten his ass handed to him by a drunk guy, so that's a moot point.  
Instead, he punches the man's shoulder, and Tony teases, "Was that supposed to be a punch? Barely felt a thing."

They spend the rest of the time working, laughing, and Peter's mood has lifted considerably by the time he returns home.  
May is battling a stove fire when he arrives- and, from the smoky smell of the kitchen, he can easily see that she is not winning.  
They order takeout instead, and it's while Peter's got a forkful of noodles in his mouth, that his Aunt offhandedly remarks that she can't find her foundation compact anywhere.

He chokes.

 

* * *

 

He had to sleep over at the compound for the weekend, while his Aunt went to New Jersey for work. Normally, he would’ve been fine to spend the weekend on his own- in fact, would’ve reveled in the freedom. Probably would've raided the fridge and filled his mouth with enough whipped cream to keep him on a sugar high for days.  
But, things weren't normal anymore, and Peter had tried to spend his time alone, but the moment the sun dipped below the horizon and his room was filled with dark shadows, he called Tony himself, and Tony sent Happy for him.

(Not true to his name, the man had seemed pretty peeved, having to drive all the way to Queens at 9:00am on a Friday night, but he seemed to have softened- even if just slightly- once he took in Peter's unruly hair, baggy PJ's, and messily packed carry-on.)  
That had all been yesterday, and he has since settled himself in the middle of his king-sized bed.

  
It’s a lot bigger than his room back home. The walls are blue and decorated with Star Wars posters. There’s a dark book shelve across his bed but it doesn’t have very many books- rather, a near-excessive amount of unopened Funko-pop boxes fill the gaps. One of them is of Spider-man.  
He likes the room- despite it’s weird, unlived look.

Until night falls.

Because night does not fall the same in the Compound as it does back home.

  
For starters, it's a lot quieter. The nighttime bluster of New York cannot be heard here. There's no honking of taxi-cabs, sandwiched in the street below. No gentle murmuring of neighbors. None of the periodical base sounds of a car passing by with its music blasting. There's nothing within the 4 walls of his room at the Compound.  
It's different because it's darker. The compound was built in an area far from the city, in the middle of freaking nowhere (that's what Peter says, at least).

He doesn’t try to sleep. He doubts he would've been able to anyway.

He pulls on a pair of sweatpants and his loafers and makes his way to the kitchen.

(There’s something about warm milk that always gets him sleepy. Probably, because his Aunt had been giving it to him for years- since Ben first swore upon the calming qualities of warm milk.)

He doesn’t know how late it is- he left his phone on the nightstand-but he can hear the soft chirping of crickets beyond the compound walls.  
Probably too late to be wandering the halls of a highly fortified facility, but he digresses.

The kitchen is not very far from Peter’s room; a conscious decision by Tony since it was almost guaranteed that Peter would wake at some point during the night with the midnight munchies, enhanced metabolism to blame.

He’s a decent yard away from the kitchen area when he hears it- the pops of the instant coffee machine brewing.  
He falters. Tony had told him that nobody was allowed in this part of the compound, other than the Avengers themselves, of course, but for all Peter knows, Tony‘s still in his lab, and Bruce is off in the medbay somewhere, and Rhodey hasn't been around since he left for some talk about the accords. His fingers find his palms, though his web shooters aren't there. He didn't think he would need them.  
He turns the corner.

And there she sits, red hair pulled into a low pony-tail, wearing baggy sweats, though with a very noticeable weapon sheath tied at her waist.  
She’s by the marble island, staring at the coffee maker blankly, tapping a nail against the outside of a mug with a spider decal on it.  
She doesn’t look much like an ex-assassin like this. She looks normal- and it’s a little jarring.  
Peter shuffles back. He feels like he did that one time he walked in on May dancing with a broom-stick in the kitchen, singing off-key to a Beatles song; very awkward, and out of place.  
The woman looks calm- and Peter’s feeling pretty much the exact opposite. He thinks his anxious presence alone might mess up this little stilted serenity she’s got going on.  
He turns.  
“I can hear you, you know.”  
She does not turn, but she does stand, and walk straight over to the coffee machine and pour herself a generous amount.  
Then she stands there, mug in hand, and pins Peter with a blank look. It’s calculating and very unnerving. Peter tugs at his sleeves and waits for her to speak.

They had already met, once before. As Spider-Man, she had been pretty quick to determine his age and had quite a lot to say to Tony about that, before the airport fight had even begun. Said something like, ‘you’re great plan was a 12-year kid? What the fuck, Tony?’  
Some of that anger had melted away, however, once she saw exactly what Peter was capable of, and she has since done nothing to stop Peter and his Spider-Man extracurriculars.  
Though, that didn’t mean she was exactly all that happy with the knowledge that Peter, a now 16-year-old, was gallivanting around New York, putting criminals behind bars.

She studies him with an expression, not unlike boredom- but Peter isn’t all that attuned to the micro expressions of ex-spy’s, so he waits.

But she doesn’t speak, and Peter doesn't know whether to be relieved or unnerved. He shoves his hands into his pockets and thumbs around the tiny lint balls- a nervous tick he seems to have picked up sometime in the few years he's known Tony.  
“Uh, I like your mug,” he starts, because he doesn't know how else to, “Spiders are really cool. Kinda creepy, but in a cool way. Like snakes.”  
He cringes inwardly.  
She glances down at the spider decal, she smiles- not very noticeably, but it's there, and it's more than enough to calm his nerves.  
“Thank you,” she says, then pauses and squints her eyes a bit, “You were in Germany. You’re that Spider-kid.”  
She does not ask- she states.  
She had only briefly seen his face on the day of the airport fight, and it has been a good year and a half since then, but, he's some twiggy kid wandering the halls of a heavily fortified facility at 12:00 on a Saturday night; the only explanation for him being there without setting off the compound's many alarms, is that he's allowed there, and Spider-Man is the only teenage superhero to be taken under Tony Starks wing, that she's aware of.  
Still, a part of him wants to believe that he's not that predictable.  
He swallows, “You know? Did Mr. Sta- Uh Tony- tell you?”  
“No. He was very adamant that I not know you. He’s still-“There's a tightness in her eyes, “He doesn’t trust me.”  
Peter nods, and though he’s a little wary about it, he moves and takes a seat beside the woman- warm milk entirely forgotten. She seems a little tense when Peter settles so close, but it doesn’t last long and she seems to settle too. (She reminds him a lot of MJ, in some ways. She's as guarded as she is observant, and they're both kinda standoffish. He imagines, that if their paths ever happened to cross, that their collective energy would be a force to be reckoned with.)

“How’d you know- i-if you don’t mind me asking- Miss Widow... mam.”  
She smiles and a bit of a breathless laugh leaves her.  
“Its Nat, and your voice. I could tell it was you the moment you opened your mouth.”  
Peter nods, lips screwed. Tony fixed a voice modulator into his suit recently, because apparently, he had a very distinctive voice. (This time, it was more realistic, and was only deep enough to age him up a few years. Peter doesn't use it often though- only if he's trying to scare someone- but really, he prefers using his own voice. Then he gets to see the dawning realization on his opponents face once they realize that yes, they have in fact, been beaten up by a kid.)

He turns his attention back to the coffee maker, considering making himself a mug of his own. Maybe she notices him looking because she pins him with a scrutinizing look.  
"You want some coffee?"  
"No, I'm good. I don't really like coffee."  
"That's good,' she nods, and takes a generous sip from her mug, "Coffees terrible."

Their conversation is stilted- kind of like how he imagines a conversation on a first date would be. It goes quiet, and though it's not an uncomfortable silence, it's not exactly peaceful.  
Peter swallows. He doesn't do well in silence, which is why he talks so much, and he can feel the words stirring in his head.  
He opens his mouth, and like a dam, he goes.  
“I got beat up by a someone on patrol last week. I mean- I’m fine now, I swear. I heal fast- but anyways- He was kinda not that good of a fighter and he still got the jump on me. It’s kinda stupid, but Tony said I should ask you to train me. I’m pretty sure he was probably joking but, I mean, it would be really nice if I could actually have the skill to throw punches that don’t miss their mark.”  
Natasha loosens her grip around the cup, and she lets out a long, drawn-out sigh.  
He winces. He probably should've considered her feelings about his proposal before he sprung it on her like that.  
“Tony wants me to train you.”  
She downs the rest of her coffee- almost like how someone might throw back a shot- and turns to Peter. She looks pretty skeptical.  
Which is fair. Peter’s sure the last time he spoke to Tony about the Rouges, the man had turned his eyes to the roof and spared little kindness for the motley crew- mostly about misplaced trust. It wasn’t venomous per se, but certainly not friendly.)  
Peter tries for a smile, “You know, he doesn’t hate you.”  
“He doesn’t trust me.”  
Peter sighs because he knows it’s true, but then again Tony wasn’t exactly the poster-child for unconditional positive regard. (Peter’s pretty impressed with himself, having managed to weasel himself in the man’s short list of trusted people.)  
He stands and pushes the wobbly chair back under the island.  
“I- I mean- you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’m pretty good at fighting- you know- as I am now. I’ll probably-“  
“I’ll train you.”  
Peter blinks.  
“What?”  
“I’ll train you, Spider-boy. I’ve seen you fight, and you're not good at it.”  
She slides her cup into the sink and stands.  
“Uh...Okay?"  
Well, that was surprisingly easy. He figured there’d be more protest on her part, but she looks... oddly happy, with the knowledge that she was, for the foreseeable future, now his teacher.  
He wonders, briefly, how Tony might take the news.  
(Even more briefly, he thinks about his current, kindof-but-not-really teacher, Rhodey, and how he might take the news that he’s kinda sort of being replaced. Probably, he’d be okay with it- he was always going on and on about the fighting skill of the rouge Avengers, Natasha Romanov’s praise withstanding.)  
She begins to walk away.  
“Thank you so much, Mam- I mean Nat. I’ll be an awesome student. The best. But uh- W-when do we begin?”  
She smiles.  
“Tomorrow.”

 

* * *

  
True to her word, they began training the next morning.  
Too early in Peter’s opinion. Though it was the weekend and Peter wasn’t set to wake up until 8:00 at the earliest, Friday had woken him up at 6:00 with loud alarm bells, and the announcement that the Black Widow was waiting for him on the training deck- and expected to see him in the next 10 minutes. Which was terrible for so many reasons, the first being that training deck was a good 5 minute run away, and he was not a morning person. By law, Parker’s were never morning people.

He pulled on some sweats and swished some Listerine in his mouth, and booked it towards the training room. He even at some point, took to running and jumping along the walls.  
(A small part of him hopes, to this day, that Friday hadn’t been recording the whole thing, though he knows -just as well as he knows that Tony will never let him live it down- that she was. Because it’s in her code to be a perpetual snoop, recording everything at all times.)  
When he ran into the training room that day, breathing heavily and sweating through his t-shirt, to find Natasha leisurely stretching on a mat, he felt a little betrayed. And then, she turned to him, snorted, and said, ‘it’s important that you get some cardio in before starting a workout’ and ‘you’ll thank me later.’  
He sat down and listened to her explain the pros and cons of fist-fighting (Pro, you get to beat on some thugs. Con, the thugs get to beat on you.)

It started with surface level instruction- like form, and how he ought to hold his hands (always with your thumb outside your fist) and easy to learn maneuvers. Then, they got to the real stuff. She taught him how to knock someone unconscious with a single blow to the back of the head. She taught him how to escape a headlock. She taught him how to properly deliver a winning blow.  
All in a weeks time- he’s quite a lot better now than the Peter of last week.  
(Still a novice, in comparison to Nat, but he is better, and she seems to think so too. She said that his flexibility and smallness put him at an advantage with his opponent- and that he ought to hold onto that, for as long as he could.)

Tony passes by sometimes, eyes turned down towards his stark pad- but Peter knows, as well as Nat, that he’s there because he’s Tony Stark, and thus, a snoop- even if he’s ill-inclined to speak with Natasha.  
Peter still isn’t sure why he lets Natasha around if he claims to still not trust her much. He said before, that it was because Bruce was back, and he ‘hated to keep the two lovebirds apart’ because he wasn’t the ‘Lord Montague to their Romeo and Juliet’. Still, Peter thinks it’s more than that.  
They were friends before. Knew of each other even before the Avengers were formed. Some part of Tony wants to forgive her, he thinks.  
And Peter’s pretty sure that, this new training thing he’s got going with the woman is the next step to mending whatever small friendship they had cultivated together over the years.  
(It also helps, that Pepper Potts adores Natasha, and hugged her the moment she spotted her in the training room, despite the fact that she very clearly had just bodily thrown Peter onto the training mat.)  
With all his training, and patrolling, and school, he hasn’t had much downtime to dwell on the Bad Feelings.  
He still doesn’t sleep much, but his body seems to have adapted and works perfectly well, even with a meager 3 hours of sleep.  
Tonight’s a patrol night, and he’s perched himself on the roof of a convenience store. It’s not too late, but the sky is peppered with barely noticeable stars, and the city below is alive with the nighttime bluster of New York City.  
He’s got his mask rolled past his nose, having just finished scarfing down two street hotdogs from the vendor below- the man who called him Spidey, and tipped his hat for Peter whenever he swung past.  
“Karen,” he starts, tossing his trash into the dumpster in the alley beside him, “Any crime reports around these parts? Things are getting a little quiet. Too quiet.”  
He walks along the edge of the roof, arms held out beside him like a balancing stick.  
“Not currently, no.”  
“Slow night, then,” He muses.  
“Seems so.”  
He sighs and sits back down on the edge of the roof.  
Despite everything- the lack of sleep, and his new fear of the dark- he’s been feeling rather calm lately.  
Natasha doesn't talk very much, which is good, because Peter speaks a lot, and she's a great listener- even when Peter went on and on about the arbitrary moments of his life- like the time he briefly met one of the Jonas brothers at his local grocery store.  
He finally feels like he can breathe.  
“Hey Karen, say I made a web hammock right here, right now. You think if I made it thick enough, it could last long enough so I could take a-“  
Peter falters and nearly pitches headlong off the roof. There’s a sharp tingle at the base of his skull, snaking down his arms, prickling under his skin.  
It’s not an unwelcome feeling- but it's not something he’s all that used to yet (he thinks, he’ll probably never get used to it.)  
His ears pick up the distant sound of screams, and not 3 seconds later, his nose twitches with the scent of burning.  
“Is that-“  
“A house fire, 3 miles north in Chelsea. Police, health, and Fire services have been dispatched.”  
Peter nods and pulls down his mask.  
“Maybe, they could use a hand from their friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”

 

* * *

  
Peter went camping with Ned and his family once.  
He had never gone camping before then, but the mosquito stings and poison-ivy rashes and sunburn were welcome repercussions, as those 4 days in a tent in the middle of the woods had been some of the best days of his life.  
He’d gone fishing for the first time. Neither Ned nor Peter had managed to catch anything -both directionally challenged and too impatient at 7 years old- but Ned’s Mom had. Just one- a catfish, he thinks. The fish had been too small to feed all 5 of them, so they wound up sending Ned’s dad to buy some pre-packaged fish from the nearest supermarket, and they ate that instead.  
He’d also had s’mores for the first time. Real s’mores- not the kind you just stuck in a microwave and hoped for the best.  
He’d stuck a marshmallow on a metal poker and watched as it turned a satisfying brown color, then caught fire and Peter had to blow it out.  
The s’mores had tasted great.  
He remembers though, he likes the smell of the burning wood. It was a strange thing to hold onto, but 9 years later he still remembers that he liked the smell.

The smell of burning wood, he liked, in the calm serenity of the forest- crickets chirping around him, the close-by lake rippling softly.  
The smell of burning wood, he does not like, in the chaos of the 3 story apartment building.  
More than burning wood- something astringent and sharp fills his nose; Gas.  
Plaster melts, floral wallpapers curl and brown, the drywall flakes and dusts the innocents an off-grey.  
And Peter's right in the middle of it all.  
He’d swung into the building on impulse. He hadn’t thought about the fact that his suit hadn’t yet been fixed with a filtration system. (He and Tony were working on it) Hadn’t thought that- despite his enhancements- he was still vulnerable to death by fire.  
Still, he climbs, and webs up collapsing walls, and holds up wooden banisters, and carries the few who can’t walk by themselves. An old woman who doesn’t speak fluent English coughs into her elbow, before taking his face between her nimble hands, and says in a voice destroyed by both grief and smoke, ‘Thank you’ and she repeats it until she is no longer in the building.

  
He finds 2 kids- around 8 and 10- curled up in the corner of a pink-walled room. The flames lick the carpet, and the girls scream terribly- though the older one has the younger one's face pushed into her chest.

  
He ushers them out of the room- though makes sure to throw a heavy blanket over their heads. And he carries them so their feet don’t touch the flames.  
In the moment, he doesn’t think about his own legs, and how they sting, and how each step feels like knives are pushing into his heels. He just thinks about the two kids- the rest of the people trapped in the building.

  
He finds more, saves more.

  
On the higher floors, where the flames had not yet reached, he tells them to crawl low on the ground, because that’s where the smoke is the least concentrated. He lowers them down to the safety of the street below with web he knows is not flammable.

  
He’s not sure how long he’s been there- but soon, there’s a sizable congregation of police, firefighters, EMTs, and dust and smoke-covered individuals on the sidewalks below.

  
And then he finds himself on the top floor. The smoke is not as thick here, but the air is tepid.  
The top floor is silent- most of the rooms have already been evacuated.  
Most, but not all. There's a room at the end of the hall, and Peter can hear them.  
Breathing heavily, clicking a lighter.

He's heard of the recent influx of building fires due to some faceless arsonist. He's been fortunate enough until then to have missed crossing paths with the guy.  
"Karen," he whispers, "is there anyone else in the building?"  
"There are 4 firemen on the first floor, and 1 other lifeform on this floor."  
"No civilian's?"  
"No civilian's," she confirms.  
Peter nods, "Alright good. Because it would've really sucked if I used that cool move Nat showed me on anyone other than the arsonist."

He keeps himself low to the ground, keeping his breathing low and quiet. He can hear the guy muttering to himself, pacing the room with heavy footfalls. Peter isn't sure why he decided to stick around, but he guesses it can't be for any good reason.

  
He reaches the room with the man.  
He slams the door open and he's immediately hit with the smell of gas. It's everywhere in the room, soaking into the carpet, splashed on the walls and furniture.

  
As expected, the man freaks. He drops his lighter, and the flames catch.  
"Shit!" Both Peter and the man yell, and the man runs for the window.  
"Hey! Not so fast!"  
He shoots out a web, just as the guy begins to crawl out the window, and pulls him back inside.

  
The man, maybe abandoning all sensibility, decides that he'd rather go down swinging, and pushes himself to his feet, squaring his fists.  
He's covered in soot and drywall, and Peter can just barely discern the visible sliver of skin over his eyes through the smoke.

  
"Stay back!" the man yells.  
Peter scoops the lighter he'd dropped and tosses it between his hands, "Hey man, fire is cool and all, but did you really have to set a whole building on fire? Ever gone camping. I hear campfires can be pretty neat in the-"  
He swings.  
And Peter doesn't even think- he just reacts. Nat had told him, sometimes it was best to listen to your gut, and so he does.  
He pivots, swings his legs across the man's kneecaps, and nails him in the nose when he goes down.

  
He's out before he hits the floor.

  
The people he saved cheer when Peter lowers the man down to the sidewalk in a cocoon of web, swinging their dust-covered hands around when he swings away.

And it's when he's swung himself the 5 miles back to his apartment and changed into his civilian clothes, that he smiles and silently prides himself on his new skills.

It's really pretty unfortunate that he'd dirtied his suit again. Tony’s really up to his ears in all the times Peter's needed him for laundering.

He's not surprised when he tumbles through his bedroom window and the air is musty.  
He ambles into the kitchen and finds May waving a rag through the air as something smokes from a small pan in the sink.  
He coughs, “It smells like a fireplace in here.”  
His Aunt jumps, white rag falling from her hands as she turns.  
“Oh, Peter you scared m- what happened you?”  
“I’m fine, May. Just a little dusty.”  
“A little?" she gives a pointed look at his tousled hair and ashen skin, "You look like you just came through the chimney-" she pauses, "Please tell me you didn't come in through the chimney."  
“Do we even have a chimney?"  
"The neighbors have a chimney."  
Peter laughs, "I didn't come in through a chimney. Just stopped a house fire."  
That's the abridged version of the story, but he always tries his best to spare his Aunt the gory details.

May frowns and runs a hand through his hair, combing through sweat and dust in that comforting way that only a Mother could.  
"Does your chest hurt at all? Any trouble breathing?”.  
He gives her a reassuring smile, “I’m fine, May. I haven't had an attack since the bite. I promise."  
She sighs, "I know, I know. But I worry, you know?"  
"I know," he smiles, "I'm gonna go take a shower, and then we can order pizza for dinner?"  
She squints, "What's wrong with my cooking?"  
Peter quirks a brow, "Something tells me it was on fire, like, 5 seconds before I came here."  
May huffs, but does not deny it, and agrees that yes, it's probably best if they order pizza.  
She gives him a hug before he leaves, and her nose is all scrunched up when they part.  
"Hurry up with that shower, Hun. You smell like a fireplace.”  
He gives her a mock-affronted look and she laughs.

 

  
Peter lets the water fall until the shower floor's no longer tinged grey.  
After, he folds his suit up and stuffs it into his bag, and calls Tony once he's settled in cotton sweats and a science tee.

  
The man answers after 2 rings, with a succinct, “I am in a meeting.”  
“Oh good, then you’re free.”  
“Ha, you got jokes. You’re not dying then. What’s up?”  
There are sounds of loud objection and intermingling voices on Tony’s end of the call, a click, and then silence.  
"Have I ever told you how great of a mentor you are?"  
"Yes. Many times. Because I am. Wonderful.”  
"Yeah, you're really great. Super. So forgiving and trusting and-"  
"Peter?"  
"Yes?"  
"As much as I enjoy your praise, something tells me it's not coming from the kindness of your heart. What did you do?"  
Peter swallows. "I stopped an arsonist."  
"Okay. Very good. I'm proud of you- doesn't explain all the flattery."

  
Peter stares ruefully across the room to where his backpack lay, shielding his terribly burnt and dusted suit from view.  
"I kinda maybe got the suit dirty again."  
Tony sighs, long-suffering, "Ash and dust, huh?"  
"Yea..."  
Tony sighs again, but it's less long-suffering and more accepting.  
"Alright kid. I’ll send Happy to pick the suit up tomorrow."  
Peter fist-bumps, "Wait- Mr. Stark can we update the suit too?"  
“Update? With what? More web stuff?”  
Peter rubs his nose, the smell of ash and burning still lingering. “How about some kind of smoke filter in the mask?"  
The man hums, "Sounds very proactive."  
Peter grins, "I learn from the best."  
He can't see Tony then, but he likes to think Tony's grinning too.  
"Hey, you did a good job today, Pete. Even if you did mess up the suit again."  
"Thanks, I used the move Nat taught me to take him down."

  
Peter winces, regretting his words the moment they leave his lips. Tony never reacted the best whenever the Rouges were mentioned- sometimes falling into a panicked stupor, or more often getting all closed off.  
But the reaction Peter expected is not the one he gets.  
"Huh," Tony says, and it's not at all panicked or angry. It's dumbfounded. And maybe, a little impressed.  
He’s eerily silent for 3 seconds too long.  
"Uh, Mr. Stark?"  
"Yeah, I'm good-" he sighs-"Just tell Romanoff I said to keep the scissor flips on the down low."  
"Uh, Okay?”  
"Night, Peter."  
"Uh, Goodnight, Mr. Stark."  
And then he hangs up, and Peter sits on the edge of his bed in confusion until his Aunt calls him for dinner.

It seems Tony's forgiven her.  
He grins into his cup of Cola.

  
_Huh_.

 

* * *

  
He's gone yet another night without enough sleep.  
He's tired- barely functioning on 3 cans of Red-Bull and strength of will alone.  
This does not go unnoticed by his friends.  
But they always notice. It's not their observance that takes him by surprise.  
It's Natasha’s.

They’re training again. Peter throws a languid left hook and Nat side-steps it easily. She swipes her leg across his knees, and he goes flopping onto the matt, boneless.  
He lies there and laughs- plays it off like he’s just having an off day.  
Nat stands over him and glares- not angrily, more like she’s trying to see through him.  
“Uh, Mrs. Widow?”  
“You’re slacking today.”  
Peter shrinks- but does not drop his façade.  
“I think you're probably just getting better. I still kinda suck.”  
Nat shakes her head, “I was going easy on you today. Too easy, in my opinion. You’re better than that.”  
She holds out and hand and Peter takes it gratefully.  
Levering himself to his feet, he dusts off his sweats and sighs.  
“I’m just having-“  
“An off day? I’ve heard that same excuse from you too many times to count. You know, I've been thinking about that night you asked me to train you. Why were you really up so late, huh?"  
Peter frowns, "I was thirsty."  
She squints, eyes scrutinizing, and Peter shifts from foot to foot.  
“I can tell, you know,” she says, and gestures at his eyes, “I can see it in your eyes. You’re exhausted.”  
“Well, I didn’t sleep much last night.”  
Nat levels him with a withering look, “No. You haven’t slept much, period.”  
She stares at him then- eyes full of an uncharacteristic sincerity. It looks like she knows more than he can find the words to say- and he’s not sure if it’s a spy thing, or a Natasha Romanoff exclusive thing.  
She puts a hand on his shoulder, and says, “Try a nightlight. It helps.”

And then, they keep training, and Nat takes it a little slower, and by the time they’re done, Peter doesn’t feel so bad about his fear of the dark.  
She gives him a smile before he leaves for the day. And Peter finds it in himself to smile back.

 

* * *

  
Tony taps his shoulder with the blunt end of his screw-driver, mouth full of 3 Chips-Ahoy cookies.  
“What’s that you’re working on? New Spider-gizmo?”  
Peter shakes his head, temporarily removing his goggles from his eyes, and peers down at his progress.  
“It’s a light.”  
Tony takes a seat beside him, handing Peter the cookie package.  
“A light? We talking tactical lights? 25 lumen?”  
Peter shoves a cookie into his mouth side-eyeing the man nervously.  
“Uh, no. It’s a Night-light, actually.”  
Tony pauses.  
He kinda stares, until Peter finds the courage to continue.  
“It's supposed to be able to project the stars onto the ceiling you know? I know I could buy a light like that at the store easily, but those are always really crappy. I want to make one that lasts, and projects some high-quality space images, I guess.”  
Tony hums and picks the small cube from the work table, studying it intimately in his hands.  
“Looks great, Pete,” he grins, “Mind if I help you?”  
Peter is more than happy to oblige.

Something happens, between Tony’s discovery and their completion of the nightlight. He looks over, squeezes Peter's shoulder and says, “I had nightlights made for all the Avengers once. When they all still lived here. It was a joke at first, but Nat- she held onto hers. It helped her, I think. They help me too.”  
Peter looks at the man- his not-quite-Dad, but something close- and grins.  
“We can make you one too. And Nat. We can make one for everyone.”  
Tony laughs and ruffles Peter’s hair.  
“I’ll bet Happy’ll be over the moon to get one of these bad boys.”  
Peter really hopes so.

  
He plugs the light into his wall, presses the button on the side of the small cube, and briefly closes his eyes.

When he opens them, his room is alight with color- projections of stars, and planets, and moons dance across his ceiling and walls.  
They blink and move- not unlike the movement of waves on a shore.  
He smiles- takes the cube and places it as close to himself as he can, without the threat of rolling over in his sleep and crushing it.

And then he lies in bed and falls asleep under the stars.

He finds Nat, the next time they train together. He tells her he took her advice and presses a small cube into her hands. She does not smile- she blinks down at the cube, eyes widened considerably. And then she pulls Peter into a hug.

 

 

 

(Tony finds her, once the kid has left. She standing in the middle of the training deck with a smallish cube in her hands, staring up at the ceiling, which is colored a deep red, speckled with stars that blink like fairy-lights.  
“The kid actually gave you one,” he says and walks over with his hands shoved in his pockets. He hasn’t really talked to Nat yet- hasn’t yet found the courage to- but she doesn’t seem all that tense, now that his presence has become known.  
“He gave you one too, I assume?” She turns to him and gives him a look- halfway between a smile and an eye-roll.  
Tony snorts and pulls a cube from his pocket.  
“The kid wouldn’t stop working till’ he made sure everyone he knew had one. Made Bruce one too. Pretty sure that kid's making one for the whole team.”  
She hums, stares at the ceiling for a second more, before clicking the off button.

She hasn’t turned towards him yet.  
“He’s a good kid.”  
Tony smiles, “Yeah. He is-“ he sighs loudly, and rolls his shoulders like he’s preparing himself for a fight, “I wanna thank you, for what you said to him the other day. About the nightlights. It was kinda nerdy but it helped.”  
Nat shakes her head, “He’s troubled. He doesn’t sleep.”  
“I know.”  
Nat turns to him- gaze unwavering.  
“I’m familiar with that kind of fear. I lived it.”  
“I know,” he gives the sincerest look he can muster for his old friend, “Trust me, I know.”

There’s something there- not quite forgiveness- not yet- but something close. A shared understanding- a shared resolve, to protect the boy in the nerdy t-shirts, and a penchant for trouble.  
Nat smiles and shoves the cube into the pocket of her hoodie.  
“He’s made you soft.”  
Tony snorts- but through the machismo and false pretense, there’s an unvoiced truth.  
“Soft? Maybe. But, hey- the kids got you wrapped around his little finger. I didn’t peg you as the type who took others under their wing.”  
“Ditto,” she says.  
Tony nods in a so-so gesture, saying, 'touche'. Still- there’s a fondness in his eyes he doesn’t often reserve for anyone outside his trusted 3 (Pepper Potts, Happy Hogan, and James Rhodes.)  
They both understand completely- Peter is the one thing they can both agree on entirely.  
Tony nods, before turning on his heel and starting for the door.  
He shakes his head, flippantly waving his hand around while he stuffs his cube back into his pocket.  
“Romeo was asking for you by the way. He’s in the lower labs, with a little fig leaf and a generous dose of bottled courage.”  
“Fuck you, Stark.”  
He grins, crows feet wrinkling around his eyes, and stops midway through his walk to the double doors.  
“Ah, but you already have plans with Bruce!”  
And then he leaves- quickly before Nat can nail him with a 5-pound dumbbell.

Nat, for the first time since she left Wakanda, doesn't feel out of place. She feels, like maybe, this could be her home again.)

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

Peter, for all intents and purposes, feels pretty good about himself.  
He takes full credit for the burgeoning relationship between Tony and Nat.

Though he does admit, when he walks into the communal area, exhausted from patrol and 3 too many tests, and finds 1 stolidly not-quite-sober Natasha Romanoff, 1 tipsy Tony Stark, 1 very sober, but very withered, Bruce Banner, and 1 unconscious James Rhodes, sitting idle of the couch, he’s pretty confused.  
He drops his backpack and stares.  
“Uh, Dr. B? Are they okay?”  
Tony’s hand shoots up, and waves around flippantly, “A-Okay, Petey-man.”  
“Superb,” Nat says, bringing a plastic cup of what Peter needlessly hopes is water to her lips. She’s got some highly reflective sunglasses perched on her nose. Rhodey continuous to snore.

He looks to Banner, and the man sighs.  
“They had a drinking contest-“ then adds, voice long-suffering-“I was referee.”  
Peter frowns- rolls up his sleeves. His watch reads 5:26.  
“It’s not even 6:00 yet?”

Tony sits up quickly, “Never too early for a drinking contest...”  
He trails off, and his eyes go wide when he spots Peter, “Except for you. It’s always too early for a drinking contest, Peter.”  
“Yup,” Nat parrots, and brings the cup to her lips again and tips it back. Peter thinks it doesn’t even seem like she drinking it. Then realizes, the cup is empty.  
(She seems to realize this at the same moment Peter does. She squints at the cup, in a look of abject betrayal, and tosses it away.)  
“Of course, I would never-“ he turns back to Bruce, who’s got his fingers pressed to the sides of his nose-“Are they gonna be okay?”  
Bruce laughs, “Yeah, they’ll be alright. They’ll sober up fine. This isn’t the first time they’ve done this, and it probably won’t be the last. Though I gotta say, it’s a lot more entertaining to watch when it’s just them. They're all very competitive.”  
Peter smiles- he knows this, too well, might he add.

Peter brings them some glasses of water- to which Tony calls him a saint, and Nat responds once again with a mono-syllabic ‘thanks’. Rhodey only wakes up long enough to take a long sip, pat Peter on the shoulder, before he's snoozing again.  
Pepper comes around and promptly laughs upon the sight of the three. (He thinks, she’s learned not to take Tony’s periodical drinking at face value.)  
She snaps a photo of them and lightly slaps Tony on the cheek.  
He opens his eyes, grins and says, ‘something angelic this way comes.’  
She sighs, a fond smile pulling at her lips.  
“Pete, you think you can help me with him?”  
“Uh, Yeah, sure.”

He takes Tony’s left side and together they help Tony away to a more comfortable place. His bed seemed a good fit, but his room was so far, so they drop him on the large couch in the lab, and the man curls up like a dog, pressing his face into his fiancé's side happily.  
Pepper smiles down at the man- something fond- and Peter looks away, not one to intrude on affectionate moments like these.  
“Go help Bruce with Nat and Rhodey, now, Yeah? I’ll stick with him.”  
He nods, and leaves, not before sparing a smile for the two.

He returns to the communal room and Bruce is helping Nat to her feet- in an attempt sequester her away somewhere far away from booze.  
She spots Peter and grins, “Tell that old man Stark I won. I always do.”  
Bruce sighs, waving Peter off with a soft, "I got this, it’s fine."  
Peter eyes Rhodey, still slumbering contently.  
"What about Rhodey?"  
Bruce waves a hand, and says,"He'll be fine. Just give him a pillow and leave a glass of water," and before long, they’re gone too, and then Peter’s alone, with the sleeping colonel.

He purses his lips, shrugs, thinks that perhaps adults are a lot more childish than they like to let on, and then settles himself on the couch.  
He smiles to himself- thinks, I did that- and lets himself breathe.


End file.
